Death at the Door (18 page)

June 2—White Gull Inn, Fish Creek, Wisconsin

Joel walked into Lacey's cottage and found her sorting through a mound of paper. Ann was at her side writing things down on a legal pad. “I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest,” he said as he handed her purse to her. He poured himself a glass of lemonade.

Lacey held up her glass for a refill. “For some reason, this lemonade settles my stomach down better than anything else I've had to drink.” Her eyes were bright but a little glassy. It was obvious she had pain medicine on board.

“How's your headache?” Joel asked as he sat down at the table.

“Gone.” She flipped her hands up and gave him a lopsided grin. “It's all gone. So's the pain in my side. I'll have my credit cards and purse sorted out in about an hour. You got any other assignments you want me to take on?”

Joel caught Ann's head shake. “Did you take your pain pills?”

“She's had two Vicodin this morning, that's why she isn't feeling any pain,” Ann said. Joel got both Ann's meanings. Lacey didn't. She was loopy enough that all but the obvious floated over her head.

“First time I've taken that stuff. It knocks the pain right out of you.” Lacey began sorting her credit cards into two stacks, the colored ones in one pile and the gold and silver ones in another. She then lined up the cards, alternating the colored ones and the metallic ones.

“If they steal your credit cards, do they also steal your credit card bills?” Lacey giggled at her own joke, not noticing that Ann and Joel did not join her. She rummaged through her purse again. “My notes are missing.” She looked up at Joel. “The bastard stole my notebook, and my badge, and my ID.”

“We put your notes from the burglaries into the computer,” Ann said.

“The notes on my interviews with Fred Johnson and that guy over in Baileys Harbor are gone.” Lacey stopped sorting her credit cards and leaned back in her chair, willing herself to concentrate on what she had done yesterday. “Both these guys have clean records since their convictions more than twenty years ago. They both had alibis that need to be checked out.”

“We re-interviewed Johnson last night and got him all squared away. He has an alibi for Larsen's murder and was out of town when most of the thefts took place. He also has an alibi for your assault.”

Lacey smiled at Joel. “Good. I liked him so I'd hate to have to kick him in the balls. Do you have any work for me? I'll go crazy just sitting here until Monday.”

“As a matter of fact I do.” Joel ignored Ann's head shaking and pulled two manila folders out of his briefcase and handed them to Lacey. He showed her the copies of Minevra Larsen's letters. “I need these read and organized and the contents summarized in chronological order.” He looked at Lacey. “Do you think you can do that by Monday morning before I go to Chicago for Paul's funeral?”

Lacey and Ann both nodded.

“Where's Lark?” Joel asked.

“He and John are playing golf.” Ann looked at her watch. “They should be back about one-thirty.”

“Have you seen Russ?” Joel asked.

“He was here right before you came. He dropped off some flowers.” Lacey pointed at the bouquet of roses and daisies on the kitchen counter. “He talked about his Internet searches on the stolen goods and said you should give him a call.”

Joel called Russ and arranged to meet him for lunch at the inn at noon.

June 2—White Gull Inn, Fish Creek, Wisconsin

Joel got to the restaurant first and asked to wait at the table. In retrospect he decided that was a mistake because it gave him time to study the menu, which gave him time to figure out how hungry he was. He gave himself a talking to and decided to order the Cobb salad. Russ showed up just as Joel closed his menu vowing not to look at it again. They placed their order, Joel sticking to his Cobb salad and adding a lemonade. He came close to changing it when Russ ordered the pork loin, potatoes, asparagus salad, and iced tea.

Russ flipped open his notebook. “I've got good news and bad news. Since there's so little of it, I'll give you the good news first.” He helped himself to one of the homemade rolls the waiter had dropped off with their drinks. “I haven't found any evidence that your items are being sold on the on-line auction services.”

“On-line auction services?” Joel looked puzzled as he buttered a roll. “The main one is eBay. I've done an item-by-item search on eBay. I've found some items from the list on sale, but they are items that aren't unique. Mr. Gorean's coins for example. I've found several Morgan silver dollars from his list. They're from the same year and same mint, but they are not always in the same mint state.”

“‘Mint state'?” Joel said.

“Mint state
is the term used for condition of the coin. Collectible coins are graded, or assigned a mint state value, based on a set of standards for each coin. The higher the grade or mint state, the higher the value for the coin.

“None of his exact coins are on eBay or any of the other on-line auction sites. I've found some individual pieces of pottery that match some of the insurance company descriptions, but none of them are being sold by the same person or coming from the same geographic area, which leads me to believe that none of our stolen goods are being sold on-line.”

Both men sat back as the waitress brought their food. Joel's salad looked delicious but it paled in comparison to Russ's heaping plate. Joel looked at Russ's trim physique and wondered where the guy put it.

“I think I've figured out where some of the missing glass went.” Russ glanced at Joel, noticing he looked curious.

“That's the bad news. I think several pieces have been sold at auction on the West Coast. Some pieces of carnival glass from the Johansen list have turned up in auctions in Seattle, Washington, and Portland, Oregon. It doesn't look like the auction houses were trying to hide anything. In fact, the pieces were photographed and placed in their sale catalogs. Looks like the Rookwood, Galle, Tiffany, and some of the coins and pottery from your list may also have been sold through these auction houses.”

“Why would they sell it without knowing where it came from?” Joel asked.

“They have the name of the owner of the glass as well as their bank name and address.”

“Hot damn,” Joel said. “One mystery solved.”

“Not really. The two bank accounts are closed, and in both cases, the forwarding address was one of those mail-drop shops. The mail drops don't have forwarding addresses. They do have a photo ID of the woman who rented the box, but they're also fake. It's the same photo of a woman but a different name on each ID. The social security numbers are real but came from the oldest trick in the book.”

“From a dead person?” Joel said.

“Yep. A Katarina Farrell, born February twenty-third, 1964, in Seattle and died one month later. Same situation, different name, in Portland.”

“I never thought it was a woman who pulled off the robberies.”

“Why not?” Russ asked, surprised by Joel's comment. “Whoever it is gets in and out like a stealth bomber. The scene is clean and neat as a pin. The burglar is meticulous about prints and tracks. There are a lot of women in the antiques field. This is a perfect female crime.”

Joel raised his eyebrows. “I hadn't thought about it that way, maybe you're right.”

“Setting up these auctions has taken some work. These are reputable auction houses that get top dollar for their goods. They'd never sell anything they thought was stolen. Whoever's doing this is good enough to make them believe they own this stuff.”

“We'll never be able to prove the auction houses sold goods from these robberies since none of this stuff is one of a kind except the two paintings,” Joel said.

“Was it marked in some way?”

“No one's told us that.”

“The insurance companies don't have any of it listed as registered other than the coins that have been graded by grading companies.”

“How did all this stuff get into the West Coast market from out here in Wisconsin?” Joel asked. “This woman must be a pro.”

Russ showed him a picture of a slim woman with long blond hair and large octagonal glasses with rose-colored lenses. “She raked in $514,320 before taxes in those auctions.”

Joel's jaw dropped. “When was this stuff sold?”

Russ flipped through his notes. “Four different auctions in March and early April.”

“Have you talked with any of the staff at the auction houses. Do they know anything about who consigned this stuff?”

“I've talked with both of them. In each case a woman inquired by telephone about selling some coins and glassware from her grandmother's estate. She then brought in the goods with the understanding that they were to be sold prior to the first of May because she was moving to the East Coast and wanted her mother's estate closed when she left town.”

“Did she say where on the East Coast?” Joel asked.

“Funny you should ask.” Russ consulted his notes. “She told each auction house she was going someplace different. She told Wetheralls Auction House in Seattle she was going to New York, and Goridano Auctions and Antiques in Portland she was going to Boston.”

“Why would she go to all the trouble to do that?”

“As long as she can keep her stories straight, it makes it that much harder for her to be tracked down.” Russ shrugged his shoulders. “Not that the auction houses would ever figure it out. She sold the carnival and Tiffany glass in one auction, and the coins, Galle, and Rookwood in the other. She spread some of the more readily available pottery out between the four sales. The auction houses would have less chance of making a linkage when the types of collectibles aren't the same.

“I've talked with the insurance companies I'm representing, and despite the fact that they probably aren't going to retrieve many of their stolen goods, they are going to keep me on the case. A thief this organized will keep doing this, which means they'll get hit again. I'm on a per diem plus expenses and a percentage of any items we recover.”

“Are you thinking about going to Seattle and Portland to get more information?” Joel asked.

“I can get all the information I need about the sales from my computer and over the phone. I'm thinking about going to Seattle to check out the mail drop she was using. While I'm out there, I could also check out the bank she used to see if anything turns up. Do you want to send someone with me if I go?”

“If we send anyone, it would be Lacey, and I don't know when she'll be cleared for travel. I've got this murder case I can't seem to get on top of and I need to be able to get a few days at home soon or Molly is going to divorce me and take the kids with her.”

Russ's smile was wistful. “Whatever you do, don't lose out with your kids. That's what really matters.”

“My marriage is every bit as important,” Joel said as he got out his wallet.

“Well, then, you're one of the lucky ones.” Russ threw tip money on the table. “I've still got inquiries out to antique shops and auction houses all over the country. I think twenty percent of what was stolen was sold in those auctions. None of the shops have responded with anything I can use, so I'm guessing this stuff either already has or will go through big auction houses. I'll keep you posted. Think about who you want to send when we track this person down.”

Joel's phone rang just as he stood up from the table. He nodded good-bye to Russ as he took the phone call.

June 2—Ephraim, Wisconsin

Bea Whitlock dragged her suitcases into her room cursing her son, who couldn't be bothered to drive up and help her with her luggage. Her daughter had driven her back up to Ephraim and had offered to carry her suitcases to her room, but then had gotten a call on her cell phone and had to leave in a hurry. Hell could freeze over before her son would find the time to come and help her. Thank God she'd moved into the downstairs guest room last year or she'd have gotten a hernia dragging her suitcases to the second floor.

Once she'd lugged her three suitcases up onto her bed, she decided she needed a break and went to the kitchen for a glass of tea. She didn't remember until she opened the refrigerator door that she didn't have any sun tea. She got the sun tea jar out of the cabinet and put together the makings for her tea and carried it to the back porch. She got herself a glass of ice water and sat down at her kitchen table. That's when she noticed that her answering machine light was blinking. There's just no rest for the weary, she thought as she shoved herself up out of her chair and went to see who had called her.

After listening to two messages to call the sheriff's office and three messages from her neighbor Juanita Tyson to call her as soon as possible, she immediately dialed Juanita's number. She got her answering machine and remembered that Juanita had also gone to visit her grandchildren. She called Juanita's daughter's house only to be greeted by an answering machine. She slammed the phone back down without leaving a message.

“Why the hell don't people answer their damn phones anymore?” she muttered. Bea called the sheriff's office. The dispatcher told her the sheriff wasn't there. She took her name and told Bea that she would find him. Frustrated at being put off, Bea decided to go back to her bedroom and unpacked her suitcases. As she put her clothes away, she found herself watching the telephone, willing it to ring. She picked it up ten minutes later, on the first ring, just as she was putting the last of her things in her dresser.

“Mrs. Whitlock, would you mind if I dropped by your house with a state police investigator to ask you some questions?”

Bea sat down on her bed in surprise. “What's this about? Have I done something wrong? Do I need to call my son to drive up from Green Bay?”

“Mrs. Whitlock, as far as we know, you've done nothing wrong. We just want to ask you some questions about the murder at the golf course on Sunday.”

“Murder at the golf course. Oh my goodness, I'm going to call my son.”

“Who is your son?” Skewski asked, wondering why she kept dragging him into the conversation.

“Richard Morrison,” she said, her voice full of pride.

The sheriff instantly understood her son's place in the conversation. Richard “Dickey” Morrison was notorious throughout Door County. He was the attorney to call if you were arrested for drunk driving or shoplifting or were bankrupt. You knew he was the guy to call because he was constantly in everyone's face with his obnoxious advertising on TV, radio, and in the newspaper. The sheriff didn't even want to think about his full-page, full-color ad in the telephone book.

“I'm sure you know my son, Sheriff, everyone does. They just don't make the connection between Dickey and I because our last names are different. Dickey's dad died several years ago. I remarried Mr. Whitlock. He died two years ago, rest his soul. I'll call Dickey and let him know you want to question me. I'm sure he'll want to be here when I'm interrogated. We can come to your office as soon as he gets here. Shall I call you and let you know when we can be there?”

“Call the department, the number you used earlier, and they'll let me know what time to expect you.” Skewski sighed and shook his head in disgust. The last thing he wanted was a dose of Dickey Morrison on a busy Saturday afternoon. He called Joel Grenfurth's cell phone and told him the news. Morrison's reputation stretched beyond Door County; he was familiar to Joel as well. Joel told the sheriff that he would drive down for the interview.

Bea Whitlock and her son walked into the interview room at 2:30
P.M
. Dickey was dressed in golf clothes and looked flushed from too much sun, too much alcohol, or both. He was obviously unhappy at having been dragged away from his golf game and up to Sturgeon Bay by his mother. She seemed completely unaware of his frustration.

Dickey nodded at Joel and Sheriff Skewski and slammed his briefcase down on the table. “Okay, Skewski, what's so damn important that it couldn't wait?”

“Have you read anything about the murder of Paul Larsen and the assault on Daisy DuBois?”

“Yeah, what about it?” Dickey pulled his yellow legal pad out of his briefcase and began lining it out.

“We found the abandoned golf cart that Paul Larsen had signed out at the golf course across the street from your mother's house. We want to ask her some questions about it.”

“That's all?” Morrison looked at his mother and rolled his eyes. “Ma, you dragged me off the golf course for this?”

“Do I have to remind you about how many things you've dragged me out of over the years?” Mrs. Whitlock gave her son a sweet smile, but her voice said it all. It was time for a little payback.

“Okay, okay.” Morrison threw up his hands and rolled his eyes at Joel and the sheriff. He settled into his chair to take notes.

“Mrs. Whitlock, if it's okay with you, we'd like to tape this interview so we can have it transcribed and signed. Are you all right with that?” Joel placed his tape recorder in the center of the table.

Bea glanced over at her son, who nodded.

“Were you home on Sunday morning, May twenty-seventh?”

“Yes. Dickey was supposed to drive me down to Madison to spend the week with my daughter and my grandchildren on Saturday, but he had an important business meeting so he wasn't able to take me until Sunday afternoon.” She was facing Joel and the sheriff but she reached out to pat Dickey's arm, almost as if she could see the frustration on his face.

“Did you notice the golf cart across the street?”

“Oh, yes, Sheriff, I saw him drive up and leave it there. I thought it was a funny place to leave a golf cart.” She looked at her son. “Remember, Dickey, it was still sitting over there when you picked me up?”

“I don't remember it.”

“Sure you do, honey. I pointed it out to you when you were putting my suitcases in the trunk.”

“You said a lot of things to me when I picked you up. I don't remember any golf cart.” Dickey shook his head.

“I just don't know how you missed it, dear. It was right there, almost in Juanita's yard. You really didn't see it?” She looked at her son in disbelief.

“Ma, if I saw it I would say I saw it.” Dickey's voice rose in frustration. “Let's get on with this so we can get the hell out of here.”

“Dickey, there's no need for you to treat these officers this way. They're just doing their job. If you can't be nice, you can just leave.” She folded her arms across her chest and settled back in her chair.

“I wish,” Dickey grumbled. “Let's get on with this.”

“Mrs. Whitlock, did you see who was in the golf cart?”

“Sheriff, please call me Bea.” She smiled at him and Joel saw the charmer she must have been in her younger years. “Even after all these years, when people call me Mrs. Whitlock, it makes me think they are looking for my mother-in-law, God rest her soul.”

“Bea, did you see who was in the golf cart?”

“I sure did.”

All three men leaned toward her, waiting for her to go on. She said nothing.

“Jesus Christ, Ma, who the hell was it?”

“Dickey, how many times have I told you not to take the Lord's name in vain in front of me?”

“Cut the crap, Ma. Who was it?”

“It was a man.”

“Who?” Joel asked.

“I wasn't able to tell exactly who it was.” She tapped her forehead. “My eyes aren't as good as they used to be and I didn't have my binoculars.”

“What did he look like?” Joel asked.

“He was tall. He had on a light-colored shirt and a pair of tan pants. He had a baseball cap on his head.”

“Can you remember anything else about him that might help us identify him?”

“He was carrying a set of golf clubs over his shoulder.”

“Did he look old or young, fat or thin? Did he walk with a limp?”

“I couldn't see him that well,” Bea said, shaking her head.

“Where did he go?” Joel asked.

“He got in a car and they left.”

“They,” all three men said in unison.

“The person who was driving the car.”

Joel and the sheriff stared at each other in dismay. Another person was involved in this.

“She had on a baseball cap and a light-colored shirt and sunglasses. That's all I could see.”

“How did you know it was a woman?” Joel asked.

Bea didn't answer at first. “I really couldn't tell for sure that it was a woman. It was just a sense I got. I guess it could have been a man.”

“What kind of a car were they in?”

“One of those Jeep cars like you have.” She looked over at Dickey for help.

“I drive a Lexus SUV. Is that what they were in?”

“I don't know. It was just one of those kind of cars?”

“An SUV?” Joel asked.

“Yes.” Bea pointed her finger at him. “It was one of those SUVs. A dark-colored one.”

Joel's mind raced. Door County was polluted with dark-colored SUVs. Dark vehicles stood out best against the Wisconsin snow. A man and a woman in a dark-colored SUV. They could find a needle in a haystack faster than they could find the murderer from this ID.

Joel leaned over toward her. “Bea, this is very important. Do you remember anything about the SUV that might help us figure out what kind it was? Any detail, even the color, no matter how trivial, might be helpful. Did you see the license plates? Could you tell what state the car was from?”

Bea thought for a few seconds and shook her head. “I'm so sorry. I can't remember anything else. I've never been good with the names of cars, and now, since I can't see very well, it was kind of a blur, just a dark-colored SUV like Dickey's. If I'd known it was going to be this important, I would have run and gotten my binoculars.”

Sheriff Skewski thanked Dickey and his mother for coming in and told her one of his officers would bring her statement over for her to sign at her convenience. After hearing from her son that it was okay to sign it, she told them to bring the statement by anytime.

“Man oh man,” Skewski said after they walked out the door. “It's no wonder that Morrison drives everyone nuts. He had one hell of a role model.”